


Let's Get Out of Here

by suburbanmotel



Category: Weird City (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Body Image, Boys Kissing, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Frottage, Heteronormativity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 06:23:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17976128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanmotel/pseuds/suburbanmotel
Summary: Stu thinks, first of all: Well, this is different.





	Let's Get Out of Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [im2old4thisotp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/im2old4thisotp/gifts).



> Because screw science.

//

 

“You can’t help getting older, but you don’t have to get old.”  
~ _George Burns_

“The longer I live, the more beautiful life becomes.”  
~ _Frank Lloyd Wright_

“Old age is no place for sissies.”  
~ _Bette Davis_

 

//

 

Stu thinks, first of all: Well this is different.

And then he thinks: Yeah. Of course it’s different.

 _Then_ he thinks: But, why is it different?

Followed by: It’s different because Burt’s _body_ is different.

_Duh._

Stu’s brain is apparently locked in some strange/weird hyper overdrive battle complete with nonsensical babbling, fast and frantic and difficult to follow, but not bad, really. None of this has been bad at all. It may have started out crazy and strange/weird but now, not so much. At all. It’s actually the opposite of not bad and not so much. It’s very much good. Like fantastically super awesome good. And unexpected. And maybe the best sex he’s ever had. And. And he thinks all of these half-formed thoughts fully and mostly freely when he allows himself to think at all, afterward.

Because of course it’s different because Burt’s body is very _different._ But _then_ Stu thinks, finally. Oh yeah, it’s different yes because _all_ of this is different. Stu is a man. And Burt is a man. They both have a man’s body. With man body parts. And—

_And._

And this is all only after his second orgasm.

The first one had been pretty unexpected, all told, with a fairly quiet but not awkward drive back to Stu’s complex pod followed by a sad, weird attempt at food preparation and cooking and fumbling with pans and heating elements.

Stu usually just orders in these days because it’s easy and he’s mostly alone. He has dates, occasionally, but nothing serious and no one he’s actually ever felt like cooking for. But he offered tonight, so. He remembers, vaguely, suggesting food to Burt but now that Burt is standing here in Stu’s stupid mostly clean and mostly unused food preparation space just staring at him while Stu fumbles and mumbles and pulls ingredients out and drops shit all over the place, Stu is completely flummoxed. He remembers offering to cook but nothing is going right. But, he fucking offered so he has to like carry through. He has to _produce_ something because it’s _polite_.

“I’m sure you’re used to, uh, like, better food than what I’m about to provide but, uh, yeah. I mean. My parents used to cook for each other all the time, so they tell me. I don’t know? It’s like a mating thing, I think. Or so I’ve heard. Cooking and nesting and providing and all that. Ha ha. As you can see, I’m not really _advanced_ in this area, or _prepared_ , nutrition-wise, for any of that so. Ha ha. But it’s not like we’re actually dating, right? We’re like. A mistake? We kinda already decided that so whatever I make you can just like. Eat. Or not eat. No expectations here.”

Burt doesn’t say a word while Stu does his strange blundering performance under too bright lights and he doesn’t lift a finger to help and he just watches and watches with this _look_ on his face that Stu keeps catching glimpses of when he even attempts to look and Stu suddenly wonders if this is some sort of misogynistic thing, like a sexist throwback thing, like maybe Burt doesn’t even know how to turn on the cooking elements because Martha did all that back in the day? Stu is keeping up a valiant and steady stream of chatter, mindless and dumb, but his skin is buzzing under his clothes with some kind of weird electrical thrum because Burt is just still watching watching watching.

Stu is just about to shout abort abort and toss everything down and ask Burt what the actual hell he’s looking at and what he’s thinking about when Burt makes a sound like a strangled cough and suddenly reaches out and wraps his hand around Stu’s slightly trembling wrist as he attempts to wrestle a package of cheez out of the fridge that he didn’t even know he had. It’s kind of old. Not the cheez itself but the package and he wonders if it’s even edible. But then there’s Burt’s hand, wide and warm. And his fingers, wide and warm, wrapped around Stu’s wrist, tight and warm and steady and trembling, too, just a little bit.

“Everything ok?” Stu says, even though it’s clear everything is not ok at all. 

“I,” Burt says. He takes a deep deep _deep_ breath. And another. Stu hopes he’s not having some kind of medical emergency. He really hopes that.

“What?” Stu tilts his head and smiles a bit in a way he hopes is both soothing and encouraging and Burt breathes out through his nose and blinks behind his glasses and pulls Stu towards him a little, gently.

“You,” Burt says, and it’s almost a question and he sounds a bit confused. Stu wonders about these aborted little sentences, tries to remember facts about strokes and heart attacks and such and feels a pang of genuine concern. The cheez package slips a bit between his fingers.

Burt keeps pulling and Stu keeps letting him and he squeezes the cheez convulsively between slightly sweaty fingers.

Stu swallows. “Hey, is everything—”

“ _Stop—_ ” Burt says, voice low and harsh and rough. Stu’s not sure if he means stop talking or stop moving or stop cooking or. Then he says, “ _Look._ ” And Stu stops everything and he looks. And Burt looks back, and kind of shakes his head like what the fuck. Stu is very familiar with that particular head shake. The _What the fuck am I even doing_ head shake. And then Burt is pulling him close and closer and the cheez package is on the floor and Stu stops talking completely.

Because then there are hands and skin and mouths and teeth and certain body parts doing certain things that might certainly bring about certain results but shit. It’s nothing that Stu had considered ever happening at any certain time because, oh yeah, _they’re both men_.

“Uh,” Stu says, pausing for breath and grabbing Burt tight by his wide shoulders but he’s not pushing him away. He’s definitely not pushing him away. He’s doing the exact opposite in fact.

“Yeah,” Burt says, glasses askew, grabbing Stu at his hips, fingers digging in very hard.

And that’s how Stu finds himself pushed up against his mostly unused kitchen counter, the sharp edge digging hard into Stu’s lower back and they’re _kissing_. Burt is kissing Stu and Stu is kissing him right back, lips and tongues and teeth and hard panting breaths. Stu realizes distantly that he’s also hard against Burt’s hip. He’s pushed up against Burt’s body and he’s hard and Burt is hard, too. They’re both hard because _they’re both men with men body parts_ and they’re kissing like it’s something they just _do_. It’s easy and excellent and they’re both _hard_. Except Stu has never kissed a man in his life. Has never even thought about it. And yet, here he is, shoved up hard against his hard kitchen counter with a hard-on pressed against an equally hard man 30 years his senior. It’s pretty fucking weird/strange. And it’s pretty fucking hot as hell.

Because, oh, Burt is doing stuff. He’s doing a lot of interesting and hot-as-hell stuff with his mouth and his hands. And Stu is making noises he’s not quite aware of, but someone is making excited noises and he’s pretty sure some of those noises are coming from his own mouth. And his hands are moving from Burt’s neck down to his shoulders, squeezing them there, then down his arms, across his broad back and lower still. Stu might even be pulling Burt’s body _closer_ , if that’s even possible, pushing their dicks, their _hard_ dicks, closer and harder together and that’s when Stu digs his teeth into the side of Burt’s neck and he comes. Just like that. In his pants. Which he hasn’t done in many, many years. But before he can feel too much shame or general confusion, Burt is grasping onto Stu’s shoulder blades with hard blunt fingertips and coming, too. Like two virginal teenage boys. The irony is not lost on either of them.

Then they’re standing there on weak, trembling legs, leaning together, clinging to each other in Stu’s brightly lit kitchen space, breathing hard against each other’s necks and what the fuck.

“What the fuck,” says Stu. Then he says, “Sorry. Sorry. I’m so sorry.” His lips are saying these words against Burt’s hot, sweaty neck. Stu wants to lick him, right there, right on the fluttering pulse point. He doesn’t, but he really wants to.

Burt pulls back a bit, face flushed. He blinks once, twice. “Oh. Ok. Sorry it happened? Or—”

“Oh. Oh no. No. Not that. No.” Stu doesn’t know where to put his hands now that they’re done doing the things. The aborted cooking things. The convulsive clutching things. But he doesn’t want to move them from Burt’s warm, strong back. “Not sorry it happened. No.” He licks his lips. He needs some water. Or some more kissing. He’s not sure. Everything is too bright and too hard and too much.

“Good,” Burt says. He nods. He looks pleased. He looks sure. As pleased and sure as Stu feels, so. That’s good, too. “Me either.”

“Oh,” Stu says. His heart flutters. “Good.”

“Yeah.”

“So.” Stu licks his lips again. They feel swollen and a bit sore. It’s been awhile since someone has kissed him like that. He wonders if anyone has _ever_ kissed him like that. Shit.

“I should.” Burt says. He makes a vague gesture with his head but he doesn’t finish his sentence and he doesn’t move and he doesn’t stop looking at Stu. Stu isn’t sure what Burt thinks he should do so he takes his warm, broad hand in his own and tugs him toward the bedroom down the hall, where it’s dark and still and cool because it feels exactly what they should do. And Burt follows, sock feet padding quietly on the tile floor. Stu closes the door and they stand together in front of Stu’s unmade bed and stare at each other. Stu wonders absently if he would have made his bed this morning if he’d had any clue he’d be standing here right now like this.

He thinks he probably would have. He thinks Burt is the kind of guy who probably makes his own bed every morning, neat, tidy edges and fluffed pillows. But, maybe he doesn’t, because he doesn’t really know Burt all that well yet, despite their recent kitchen activity and—

“Ok,” Stu says, when Burt pulls off his own slightly sweaty shirt, and pushes down his dampened semen-soaked pants and underwear. “Ok,” Stu says and does the same, and when he struggles a bit when the pants get tangled around his feet, Burt leans down to help, wincing a bit and reaching for his lower back. Stu makes a mental note to rub that for him later. “Ok,” he says when they fall, a bit awkwardly, elbows and knees banging, onto Stu’s messy bed. Stu hopes his sheets are clean enough for whatever it is they’re about to do. He can’t remember the last time he had someone else in his bed and he can’t remember how many times he’s jerked off all alone. But he suddenly doesn’t care when Burt takes a deep breath and rolls over and curls his hand around the back of his neck and pulls him close and unlike the kitchen area incident, this time it’s all skin against bare skin and holy shit holy shit holy shit.

They start with kissing again, but slower this time, much slower, none of the frantic half-crazed kitchen frottage which is a good thing because it gives both Burt’s back a break and allows Stu a chance to really focus on things, which at the moment is Burt’s mouth. And Burt, Stu realizes quickly, is an _excellent_ kisser.

He’s both soft and rough and thorough and teasing and he _bites_ and he works at Stu’s lips and his chin and his jaw and up to his earlobes. He kisses the tip of Stu’s nose. He uses his tongue and his mouth and Stu is severely lamenting his own abilities until he understands that half of the pleased noises being made in the quiet room are coming from Burt.

“This is,” Stu says, up against Burt’s lips. “Uh.”

“Yeah,” Burt says. “I know.”

Burt’s body is not like his own body and it’s definitely not like any other body he’s touched. It’s bigger and wider. It’s softer. There’s muscle definition there, but deeper, hidden, something you need to search for, if you have the time and inclination. It’s older and foreign but not unfamiliar. Something both past and present. It’s a kind of map that Stu explores with his hands and his mouth. He traces lines and roads and rivers and tributaries. Veins that rise and intersect. Stu finds them all, up Burt’s hands and arms to his neck. And Burt likes it. He loves it, Stu thinks. As much as Stu is enjoying it.

As soon as he’s taken his tongue out of Burt’s mouth and off his neck and his armpit and his elbow and everywhere else Stu’s tongue has found itself — he can’t help it really — he allows himself to not only understand that Burt’s body is so different, but appreciate it and Stu is fucking mesmerized by it. Its folds and creases and freckles and ridges and spots light and dark. He can’t take his hands off it. Or his mouth, apparently. And Burt gives as good as he gets, something Stu was not expecting at all, not that he was expecting anything. Burt has this tongue holy shit. His tongue is wet and probing. No, thinks Stu. No. Not probing. It’s not that. That sounds too clinical. It’s exploratory. It's curious. It’s. It’s fucking sinful. It’s everywhere. It’s on Stu’s shoulders and chest and nipples and stomach and hip bones and thighs and knees. It finds the hollows of his ankles and the backs of his wrists. The spot beneath his ear on the right side and the top of his ear on the left. Stu has a lot of questions he’d like to ask but his own tongue isn’t cooperating with his mind at the moment. He wonders about Martha. He wonders if Martha ever experienced this tongue. He doesn’t want to know. He wants to know. He really doesn’t want to know.

“Have you ever—” Burt gasps as Stu’s lips curve over Burt’s hard dick, red and weeping. Stu looks up and shakes his head as he sucks down, hard and harder, the side of his head resting on Burt’s stomach, rising and falling, hitching, soft and wanting as Stu sucks and sucks and —

And then—

“Have _you_ ever—” Stu says with three fingers inside Burt.

Burt shudders and shakes and says no. No.

“Your body,” Burt says at one point, his mouth and his tongue at the juncture of Stu’s spine and neck. Stu is sprawled face down, helpless, hopeless.

“Yeah?” Stu is stupid. He has all these things he wants to say but doesn’t know how to say them. He wants to ask if Burt likes his body, likes the maleness of him, the planes and ridges and hard-edged bones. He wants to ask if Burt is ok with all of him, but then he feels Burt’s hard breaths on his shoulders and neck, feels the hardness of his dick against the top of his thigh, feels a dampness there, too and thinks ok ok ok. He’s ok with this. He must be. Science sometimes works in our favour.

And Stu fucking loves it. He didn’t think he would but he does. It’s skin that has stretched and widened and pulled beyond its means. There are vital organs beneath, of course, of course. And there’s Burt’s brain and his mind and it’s not only different from Stu’s own body, but it’s different from _any_ body Stu has experienced before. It’s not female, for one. But when Stu is running his hands up and down that body over and over and over and over again and Burt is making those noises. Yeah.

Burt has these hands that are, well. They’re pretty fucking amazing. They are broad and soft and strong. His fingers are thick and long and the pads of his fingertips are calloused so when they slide along Stu’s skin they tease and shock at the same time. And when they slide into Stu’s body they tease and shock at the same time. They’re miraculous. Stu knew they would be but they still catch him off guard. This is what he tells himself at least. 

And then Stu comes with a sudden shuddering jolting start that he hadn’t been expecting at all. And it’s amazing and it amazes him that Burt knows him this well because his body is _different_. It’s. Well. It just is. And then Stu thinks, well of course it is. Holy shit. Burt is what, in his 60s? He must be. Right? Yes. Yes. Maybe in his 70s. As old as his parents, or even older. Stu’s parents. Not Burt’s parents. Because Burt’s parents are probably not alive? Anymore? Stu doesn’t know for sure but that’s something he should definitely absolutely 100 percent find out about. Soon. Not at this exact moment maybe but soon.

Soon.

“I can hear you thinking,” Burt says. He’s still trying to catch his breath and he’s not really looking at Stu, not yet, not directly.

“You can?” Stu says. He’s staring at his ceiling, hands on his sweaty, slick chest, abdomen muscles hitching under his fingers. He finally rolls his head to the side so he can see Burt’s profile in the near darkness. 

“Have,” Stu breathes. His breath is being pulled from his chest in short, hard spurts, like he’s been running sprints. “Have you done _any_ of this before?” He thinks of those long thick fingers as they moved in and out and back and forth.

Burt is breathing hard too, Stu notes. He wonders briefly if he should be concerned. Burt doesn’t seem to be in any distress though. Stu remembers eyes bright and shiny and hard and very focused on the spot where his fingers were moving inside Stu, eyes moving back and forth between that spot and Stu’s face. Stu’s mouth half open, tongue out a bit, panting, chest heaving.

“I haven’t,” Burt says and he says it like a confession, like it’s something shameful but he doesn’t sound ashamed at all, not in the least. He sounds proud. He sounds amazed. He sounds fucking grateful that Stu let him do that to him, that he made Stu’s heels dig into the mattress and his hips buck over and over. “But I’ve thought about it.”

Stu rolls over fully now, rests his head on his arm and waits. “You have?”

Burt nods. “Once or twice. Before, before Martha,” Burt says. “But not again. Not until I met you.” He pauses. “It caught me by surprise.”

Stu nods. “Me, too. Surprise. Big surprise.” He pauses. “I never even thought. But.”

“But now,” Burt says, breath warm and gusty along Stu’s cheek.

“Yeah. Now,” Stu says, and he can't help smiling.

And Burt nods. “Yeah. And now.” And he's smiling, too.

 

//

 

There are dinner dates. There are movie nights. There are weekend barbecues and get-togethers with Stu’s parents and Burt’s kids. There are Safeball games. There are long drives to the coast and mini-vacations at different resorts, when they can both get away . There are heated and respectful debates about politics and birthrights and past lives and sexuality. There’s a _wedding_ where Stu can’t stop crying and Burt can’t stop smiling and there’s sex. There’s a lot of sex and it never stops feeling good and it never stops feeling right and in the middle of the night, when Stu awakes from one of his panicky nightmares now he can roll over and he can push his nose into the back of Burt’s neck and wrap his arms around Burt’s solid middle and remember he’s not alone anymore.

Neither of them are alone anymore.

 

//

 

They’re Mandated for Separation. Mandation is pretty fucking serious. Stu knows this. Burt knows this. It’s not like _Oh we’re just breaking up_. It’s. It’s a big deal Above the Line. There’s paperwork involved. And authorities and legalities. There are _repercussions_ if they disobey. It’s serious. Stu listens with a dry mouth and a pounding pulse and sweaty palms and he understands even if he hates it and he looks at Burt and Burt looks back and Stu feels his heart pretty much splitting in two. 

 

//

 

Everything about Schmeidre is different.

They meet. They hook up. Stu knows the drill. They all know the drill, Above the Line. They talk, or try to, halting and faltering, a bunch of half-hearted valiant stops and starts that peter off into a nothingness that gnaws at Stu’s already acid gut. He swallows a lot when he’s with her, and blinks rapidly because he’s oddly embarrassed that he might start crying as she sits across from him or beside him, or curls up behind him, bare knees tucked into the backs of his legs.

Everything about it is different, including her body. She’s smaller and thinner and smoother and quieter. There’s less _hair_. She doesn’t move like Burt or sound like Burt or smell like Burt. When Stu pushes inside of her, when he lays his face against the side of her neck, when he touches her head, her shoulders, her back, it’s all different, all of it.

She moves differently under his hands and he moves differently, too. It’s rote, all of it, a recollection of a memory of something he’s done before, with other women who also weren’t Burt. It’s boring and ordinary and by-the-book and even as he’s coming, instinctual and relieving, Stu feels like he’s losing a part of himself, losing his _mind_.

Afterward, she leans on him, brushes his ear with her face. “That was great,” she says, her hot breath tickling the sensitive skin there. He’s so fucking irritated he could spit, he could shove her off him, gather his clothes and run out, run away.

“I need to get out of here,” he says before he can censor himself.

She pulls back, fingers twitching on his bare shoulder. “What?”

Stu pulls himself back, pulls himself together. “I mean. I just. I totally forgot I have an appointment. Sorry. This was great. All of it. It _was_ great. Absolutely. I’m just.”

He sits stiffly and ungracefully and gathers his clothes with clumsy fingers and runs out, runs away.

 

//

 

He runs into Plisa and Booj in the downtown common. He literally runs into them because his head is down and he’s watching his feet move one after another after another and blinking furiously trying not to cry and—

“Stu,” Plisa says, catching him by the arm, eyes wide. She doesn’t sound mad or upset. She’s just looking at his face very intently and Stu feels dumb and vacant and empty. These are Burt’s kids. They’ve all hung out and played games and traded stories and eaten food and now they’re nothing. They’re nothing to each other because Mandation. So he just nods and tries to walk on, but Booj reaches out and takes hold of his other arm so they’re all standing together in a weird triangular group non-hug and Stu has no idea what to say, except, _How is Burt? How is he? Is he ok? How is he?_ But he doesn’t say anything at all.

“How you holding up?” Booj’s voice is low and quiet and sincere. Stu swallows hard and nods once, quick.

“Yeah, good,” he says but his voice cracks right in the middle. Booj and Plisa glance at each other, solemn and knowing.

“Dad’s a mess, too,” Plisa says, leaning close to Stu’s ear. “He really really misses you.”

Stu blinks and nods and smiles and says, “Well, you know.” He makes a weird bobbing motion with his head.

“Know what?” Plisa says and she actually sounds interested.

Stu pulls both his arms free and keeps bobbing his head as he walks away and says, “Can’t argue with science.”

 

//

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Stu’s mom says as she envelops him in a warm, soft hug. “I know it hurts.” She cups his face. “It's just the way it is here Above the Line. But think of all the bonuses about living here! It’s worth a little pain now and then, right?” She smiles gently and gestures around them. "Right?"

Stu lets himself cry against her shoulder as his dad pats him awkwardly on the back and advises him to keep his chin up. There will be other Burts, he says, Better Burts. Burts Who are The One. Stu doesn’t reply. They eat dinner on the balcony and watch the sun set and Stu thinks of beach days and endings. As his parents drink tonic and watch the console, he wanders through their complex pod, reluctant to go home. He knows he needs to contact Schmeidre. He knows it’s pretty much the last thing he wants to do. He finds himself in his parents’ storage room, littered with some dusty containers containing unused clothing and dishes soon to head to charity Below the Line. He opens a small trunk containing relics of bygone days, printed photographs of relatives he never knew, his father’s coin collection, CD recordings of long-dead bands, a cellular phone belonging to his grandmother, an old paper map of his grandfather, a noted traveller. This he takes out and holds carefully, gently, running his fingers over the creased and worn and thin paper, this map of an old country, with old, long-gone boundaries.

He spreads it out fully on the floor and kneels beside it. It’s faded and frail, revealing cities and states, rivers and lakes and roads stretching from one side of the paper to the other, twisting and winding and connecting everything to something else. Stu wonders what it must have been like to navigate back then, without the aid of electronics and screens and coding and Steffi’s incessant voice in your ear. He touches the paper and thinks, absurdly and tenderly, of Burt’s face, his hair line, cheek, and chin, his neck and chest. The veins running down the inside of his arm to his wrist. He wonders why maps became obsolete when they’re so very very beautiful, when you can physically move your fingers and hands from one place to another, tracing exactly the route you’re taking, organically, from beginning to end.

Maps, he thinks, ones you can see and touch and look at and share with a traveller, a fellow traveller, outline the most natural journey, because if either of you change your mind, you can just veer off and go in another direction entirely. If you feel like it. You can do whatever you want. He follows a long and winding road up up up, past blue, open bodies of water and green spaces long eaten up by development and steel and concrete and disembodied voices and science.

Start here, end here. Stop.

You may now exit your vehicle. Your destination has been reached.

You’re home.

 

//

 

Screw science.

 

//

 

“Let’s get out of here,” says Stu.

They’re lying together, pressed close, naked and sweaty and sated, happily and illegally, in Stu’s bed Above the Line. After the last time with Schmeidre he yanked all the sheets and blankets off in a fit of anger and despair, so they’re on the bare mattress, bare pillows under their heads but Burt hasn’t commented and Stu hasn’t explained.

“Let’s what?” Burt says as he tries to catch his breath.

“Let’s get out of here.” Stu threads his fingers through Burt’s, holds them tightly. It’s quiet for a beat. “Did you know that was one of the common lines of dialogue in old movies? I saw that in a trivia game.”

“Yeah Egg White. I know that. I know. I’m a lot older than you. I know.”

“Ok.” Stu takes a deep shuddering breath.

“So yeah. Let’s get out of here,” Burt says, nodding.

“Yeah?” Stu presses his lips to Burt’s shoulder. “Where do you want to go then?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Burt smiles right at him. Stu’s heart clenches in his chest. Skips a beat. Jesus. It skips another beat. Maybe Stu will just die. He doesn’t care. “Anywhere,” says Burt. “I’d go anywhere with you.”

Stu wraps his arms around Burt when he says this because he hasn’t even really allowed himself to think about this. Burt’s heartbeat is strong and steady and Stu puts his palm over that spot. He pushes down just a bit to feel it better. Strong. Steady. He traces hair patterns over his chest, from the base of his neck down, down, down, a long twisting line leading down, across, over and back.

“I can hear you thinking,” Burt says.

Stu smiles. “Yeah. Thinking about my grandfather.”

Burt snorts then laughs out loud. “Perfect.”

Stu struggles to sit, face aflame. “Oh god. No, no.” He grabs Burt’s face and kisses him three times, the last with tongue. “Not like that holy shit no.” He laughs then because it’s all so absurd, all of it. “I just. I just would like to see him again.” Stu says. “To thank him.”

Burt doesn’t ask but he kisses him back, slow and firm and sure and nods like he understands.

 

//

 

Stu remembers his mom talking about her body changing as she aged, flesh stretching and sagging after childbirth and weight gain and she complained, occasionally about how she looked. Stu’s dad always hugged her then, rubbed his hands up and down and said she was beautiful, so beautiful. Burt does this sometimes, looks in the mirror, turns to the side, sighs deeply and touches his stomach like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing reflected back at him. When Stu catches him doing this, he grabs him and wraps his arms around him as hard he can and he kisses him hard all over, dragging him to the bed and taking him into his mouth until Burt is panting and squirming and arching and Stu tells him how beautiful he is and he won’t stop until Burt tells him he believes it.

 

//

 

There is a move to Below the Line. There is a sunset. And another and another. There is a drive to the beach, followed by many more. There is swimming in the ocean. There is rolling on the sand and there is a lot of hand holding. There is hugging. There is home decorating and burned dinners. There is arguing and kissing. There is sex. A lot of sex.

“Here’s to a thousand more sunsets,” Stu says as they sit and watch one night.

“Or, however more we have left,” Burt says in reply. The sun has sunk low and their hands are clasped. Stu is humming to himself, tunelessly. He stops and looks at Burt. Burt doesn’t look at him.

Burt shrugs. “No one knows, Egg White. Just so you get that. Things happen. Sometimes very suddenly. I don’t know how many I have left. Less than you, most likely.”

Stu blinks rapidly. “But we don’t know,” he says. He shrugs. “I mean. We _don’t_.”

Burt smiles a bit and nods. “No. We don’t. So. We make the most of ones like this.”

The sun sinks down low, lower. Disappears. Stu squeezes Burt’s fingers. Burt lifts his hand to him mouth and kisses his hand.

“Are you hungry?” Stu says when he hears a stomach rumble. Could be his, could be Burt’s.

“I could eat,” Burt says after a bit. “I’m not used to all this physical _activity_.”

“Me either,” Stu says and Burt laughs.

“I can cook,” Stu says without thinking.

“Can you, though?” Burt says and Stu kisses him, hard and then soft, cutting off the laugh. Then he pulls him to his feet and they go.

 

//


End file.
